Free Bent Road by Lori Roy Page B

window and lifts up high enough to see out. Daddy, now standing at the front of Uncle Ray’s truck with Jonathon right behind him, is waving one hand toward Aunt Ruth and pointing at Uncle Ray with the other. As Jonathon reaches out for Daddy, Daddy bangs his fist on the truck’s hood. The same crash that Evie heard. Daddy shakes off Jonathon and holds up one hand to stop Grandma Reesa, who has started walking toward him. Uncle Ray has backed up to the rear of his truck and is motioning at Daddy with both hands the same way he did when Olivia spooked as she walked out of the trailer. He’s trying to calm Daddy, to make him settle down so he doesn’t rear up. In four long steps, Daddy is standing face to face with Uncle Ray.

    Shifting in her chair to hear more clearly through the open kitchen window, Celia smiles as Ray’s truck finally quiets down. Next, one of the truck’s doors opens, followed by heavy boots landing on the gravel drive. Another door opens.
    “Help your Aunt Ruth.” It’s Reesa, probably calling out to Elaine. “She’ll have a handful.”
    At the sound of her mother-in-law’s voice, Celia presses her hands flat on the vinyl tablecloth, bracing herself, the smell of burnt chicken beginning to tug at her. Next to the chicken, which sizzles and pops, though quieter now because its juices have burned off, broth hisses as it splashes over the sides of Reesa’s iron pot onto the hot stovetop and disappears in a puff of steam. Celia presses her feet on the white linoleum and repositions herself on the vinyl seat cover, rooting her body so she won’t be tempted to stand. The God damned chicken can burn for all she cares.
    Sundays were pleasant in Detroit. It was the day she wore white gloves and her favorite cocoa velour pillbox hat with the grosgrain ribbon trim. The children wore their finest clothes to church and never worried about dust ruining the shine on their patent leather shoes. Arthur always wore a tie. Sundays in Detroit were properly creased and always well kept until the riots started and everything began to smell like burnt rubber and the Negro boys started calling Elaine. Now Sundays are dusty, filthy, wrinkled and spent watching Arthur pat his belly as Reesa fries up a chicken. Celia shivers thinking of Reesa’s offer that next week she’ll teach Celia how to pick a good fryer from the brood and wring its neck with a few flicks of the wrist.
    “Look up at me, Ruth,” Arthur says from outside the window.
    Something about Arthur’s voice makes Celia stand. She slides her chair back and leans over the sink where she can see out the kitchen window. Ray and Ruth have both stepped out of the truck. Ray is standing on the far side, where only the top of his hat is visible, and Ruth is standing on the near side, her back to Celia, her arms dangling, her head lowered.
    “This why you weren’t at church this morning?” Arthur says, his voice louder.
    Ruth doesn’t move. Arthur takes two steps forward and Jonathon grabs his arm. Arthur yanks away, raises a fist in the air and slams it against the hood of Ray’s truck.
    Celia startles, her hand slipping off the edge of the sink.
    “Tell me, Ruth.”
    Ruth lifts her face. Arthur closes his eyes and drops his head. A braid hangs down Ruth’s back, tied off by a bright pink band. After teaching Ruth how to braid her own hair, Celia had promised to wash and trim it when she came on Saturday and she even bought honey for their biscuits. But Ruth never came.
    The thick braid moves up and down, no more than an inch as Ruth nods her head yes.
    Arthur slams his fist on the truck again and holds up his other hand to Reesa, who has started to walk toward him. He turns to Ray.
    “You lay your hands on her face?”
    Ray doesn’t answer but instead backs toward the rear of the truck.
    “Answer me. You lay a hand on her?”
    “This is business between me and my wife, Arthur. No place for you.”
    Arthur shoves Jonathon away when he tries again to